Indulgence in Death (In Death #31)(12)

She hesitated, then shrugged. “Look, whoever did this isn’t very bright, and it’s botched so badly it was probably a first kill. Your ME’s going to check for sexual assault, but she’s fully dressed, underwear’s in place, so it’s not saying rape to me. It’s going to be a boyfriend or somebody who wanted to be, somebody who used to be. You have the data—where she worked, lived, went to school. You run it down. Either she or the killer had some sort of a connection with the area.”

“Tulla?”

“That or the surrounding area, one of the towns within, most likely, an hour’s drive. Run the probabilities, connect the data, use the data. You’ve probably got your killer with what’s under her nails, but until you have an ID, and a suspect to bring in to interview, you work the case.”

“Well, her mother lives in Newmarket-on-Fergus, that’s not far at all.”

“Start there,” Eve advised.

“Go to her mother and tell her . . .” Leary glanced at the body again. “You’ve done that before.”

“Yeah.”

“Can you tell me how, the best way?”

“Quick. Take a grief counselor, or,” she said, remembering where she was, “maybe a priest. Maybe the mother has a priest you could take with you. Then you say it, get it done, because when she sees a cop and a priest, she knows it’s bad news. You identify yourself—rank, name, division, or whatever it is around here. You’re sorry to inform her that her daughter, Holly Curlow, has been murdered.”

Leary looked at the body again, shook his head. “Just like that?”

“There’s no good way. Get her to tell you all she can, and tell her as little as you can. When did she last see or speak to Holly, did she have a boyfriend, who did she hang with, what did she do. You have to have a feel for it, you have to guide her through it.”

“Christ save us,” he murmured.

“Use the priest or the counselor, offer to contact someone to come be with her. She’ll likely ask you how, and you tell her that’s being determined. She’ll ask why, and you tell her you and the investigative team will do everything possible to find out, and to identify the person who hurt her. That’s the only comfort you can give, and your job is to get information.”

“I wonder if I could ask if you—”

“I can’t go with you,” she said, anticipating him. “I can get away with what I’m doing here because I’m a wit who also happens to be a cop. It makes me, unofficially maybe, an expert consultant. But I can’t investigate or interview or notify next of kin. It’s over the line.”

She stuck her hands in her pockets. “Look, you can contact me after you get some of this done, some of it lined up. Maybe I can give you some angles if you need them. It’s all I can do.”

“It’s been a great deal already.”

“You’ve got my contact information. I’m due to leave for Italy tomorrow.”

“Oh.” He looked pained.

“You get an ID from what’s under her nails, Leary, and you’ll have a suspect before nightfall. I’ve got to get back.” She took one last look at the dead. “You’ll do all right by her.”

“I hope I do. Thank you.”

She started back to the park, a little uneasy about walking through that green wood—not of killers or maniacs, but of fauna and the stupid faeries she didn’t even believe in.

So she pulled out her ’link to contact Roarke. She’d asked him to go on back rather than wait.

“There you are,” he said when his face came on-screen.

“I’m heading back. I can’t do any more here.”

“Difficult.”

“On a lot of levels. The local’s okay. Not much confidence but a decent brain. She has trace under her nails, blood and skin. If he’s in the bank, they’ll ID him quick enough. Leary’s got to notify the mother, and with any luck she’ll give him a name or two. It has the smell of a slam-dunk to me—impulse, stupidity, panic. The killer may try to run, but they’ll get him. He’s as green at this as Leary is.”

She scanned the area as she walked, just in case something four-legged and furry made an appearance. “Got some cops coming down from where she was living. I expect they’ll knock on some doors first, get a sense of her.”

“What’s your sense?”

“Young, maybe a little wild, more tats showed up when the ME started his exam. More piercings. Sexy panties, but they were still on her so I’m doubting sexual assault. But I’m betting the murder had its roots there. She left with the wrong guy, or she flirted with somebody, and the guy she was with didn’t like it. Argue, slap, scratch, punch, passion and fury, he chokes her out of that fury or to shut her the hell up—and kills her before he pulls it together again. Panic. This can’t be happening to me. Self-preservation. Get rid of her, get away from her. Go home and hide.”

“Did you run probabilities?”

“Maybe.” She smiled just a little. “To pass the time. I guess this kind of screwed up the day.”

“It certainly did for Holly Curlow.”

“You’ve got that right. If you come pick me up, we can go back and do whatever it is we’re supposed to do with the rest of it.”